Be My Escape
by HHHereComesTrouble
Summary: She hasn't felt his touch in a year's time, but it is still far from foreign to her...HHH/Steph. One-shot.


Here's a little something that I wrote back in May, never posted, and looking through some files today, found. It's angsty, a little smutty, and you know, all that good stuff. (The smut isn't too graphic, so if that's what you're looking for, you may want to go read something...anything of Caty's.) I'm posting this because I actually kind of like it, which never happens, and I hope everyone else kind of likes it, too. :)

* * *

Today is without contest her favorite day of the year.

The other three hundred sixty-four – if it's a leap year, three hundred sixty-five – are worth dreading and enduring so long as she gets this day. It's marked on her calendar each year, circled in vibrant, red ink that not a single pair of eyes could overlook. On this day, all the insufferable mornings, the sleepless nights, and the extraneous occurrences amid mean nothing, because today is the only day she lives for. It's the one time of year she can channel every ounce of her misery into the one thing she lusts for above all else.

On the outside she wears an ordinary smile, nodding professionally at the colleagues who unsuspectingly pass her by. They know nothing of the sinful smirk lying beneath her upturned lips, and that fact alone makes said smirk even more desperate to present itself. People are disgustingly oblivious, but perhaps that's for the best in her case. Day in and day out they go about their business, grinning at her with harmless intentions when really, they don't have a clue. They're blind, all of them. Or maybe she's just a fucking phenomenal actress. Tucking a stray, curled strand behind her ear, she crosses one leg over the other and takes note of the way her dark skirt slides up her thighs, but only a little. There is still very much of herself she reserves for the imagination.

And somewhere in this room, someone is watching her, and that someone is wetting his lips as he allows his imagination to wander without boundaries, without limits.

Without regret.

Her eyes briefly scan the room for this someone, but they inexplicably settle on the massive stone she wears so unfaithfully on her left hand. A soundless sigh falls from her lips as she examines the flashy piece of jewelry. She loves her husband, she really does. He's a genuinely great guy, he treats her like a queen, he's the father to her children, and he fulfills her every want. But want is very different than need, and unfortunately her husband just isn't what she needs. That's why today is so crucial.

To be blatant, she can hardly wait. She hasn't felt his touch in a year's time, but it is still far from foreign to her. She bites down on her bottom lip slightly, dwelling on how much she adores the way he touches her. He's the perfect mixture of gentle and rough, and he knows all the right places to be intimate with. She loves that. She loves that he just knows without instruction, and therefore with him, words are hardly necessary. It's as if when they're together, they're not only joined by body, but mind and soul. When he's inside her, she well and truly feels alive, something she rarely gets to feel anymore. He's more than just her favorite fuck; he's the man who stole her heart. And the sick and twisted part?

She's not asking for it back.

So now the room is nearly filled to its capacity, with various people still searching for an available seat and others babbling quietly to the stranger to their left or the stranger to their right. Well, the person her gaze craves is nowhere near a stranger, and he won't be on either side of her thankfully. If that were the case, given their lack of self-restraint and ability to keep their hands to themselves, they would undoubtedly maul one another right here, right now. And that would be rather…inappropriate given their surroundings. Not to mention it would violate the rights of every single person occupying this room, not that she cares though. Regardless, that's why he'll be seated on the other side of the room as always, so seemingly far out of reach, but close enough for her to see what's impending. She smirks outwardly this time. A wave of satisfaction washes over her as she locates this person of interest, only to find that his eyes have located her, too. They're dark. They're fierce. He is wanting.

Just like she too is wanting.

"Good morning," a voice booms, consequently causing her thoughts to disperse. It's her father, of course, so she sits up tall like a good, little girl and picks up a pen in her right hand. She runs her tongue along her lower lip because he's watching her, she's sure of it. Now comes the waiting game. "Welcome to the WWE Annual Shareholders Meeting. First of all, I'd like to thank all of you for coming out today. You'll be hearing from many of our top executives through the course of this meeting, and we do have a lot to cover, so let's not waste any time getting things started…"

Despite her escalating boredom, Stephanie McMahon sits there idly. Her eyes are fixated on whomever is speaking for the most part, but she'll occasionally find them drifting in his direction, drinking him in from head to toe – well, more like sipping. Drinking is too conspicuous. She likes to think her movements are ethereal, but then again, the members of this audience are so engaged, so mesmerized by the words descending from the podium that they likely wouldn't notice her if she strutted right in front of them. The stillness in this environment right now is actually a bit unnerving and causes her to fidget in her chair unknowingly. No, she refuses to grow impatient though, to express needless agitation. Today is a good day, and this _will_ be worth the wait. It always is.

Almost as if someone senses that she requires reassurance, her phone buzzes in her lap without making a sound. A corrupted smile forms on her lips upon seeing whose name pops up on the lit screen, even though she already suspected it would be him. After keying in her passcode, Stephanie reads the message in her head and can't impede the heat that floods to her cheeks in response.

_Getting antsy, are we now?_

Her nimble fingers tap away at the touch screen keyboard vigorously after she composes a new message.

_Is it that obvious, Levesque?_

She sends the text. She looks up at him to find him smirking to himself, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he orchestrates his reply. She waits.

_To me…yes. Tell me what you're wearing. _

A smile creeps onto her flushed face. The conversation only picks up from there, the irrelevant voices and people around them slowly fading into nothingness as they slip off into a world of their own – a world where they're the only two beings that exist and everyone else ceases to, just the way she likes it, and just the way it should be.

_ You're not blind. See for yourself…_

_ How about under the business getup, Steph?_

_ You really want to know?_

_ Yes, that's why I asked._

_ Lace._

_ Mmmmm, what color? _

_ It's a surprise. :)_

_ You're such a tease, you know that?_

Stephanie's on the brink of answering with some witty, snarky remark that she knows he'll just eat right up, but she nearly drops her phone as she hears someone announce, "And now please welcome Executive Vice President of Creative, Stephanie McMahon…"

Paul Levesque, who finds assemblies and statistics awfully tedious, scoots forward to the edge of his seat, watching so intently as she walks to the front of the room. He smiles because he loves her walk. From the way she holds her head up high, to her graceful strides, to her enticing, swinging hips, everything about it is perfect and makes him want her even more.

Something catches his eye though as one of the ceiling lights reflects off her hand at a particular angle. It's a blinding flash, one that causes him to retract his stare, but not because he's vulnerable to brightness. Her wedding ring. He wears one just like it, only it doesn't match hers and it isn't meant to. She has a husband. He has a wife. They're both married, but not to each other, so technically they're cheaters by partaking in this, right? They're cheaters and liars and sinners and horrible human beings, assholes essentially, but neither one of them feels the slightest bit of guilt. How can they feel guilty when what they're doing feels so good, so right? When they're joined as one, this crazy little thing called life suddenly makes sense. And at the end of the day, jewelry is so insignificant. It's hardly a symbol of love. Love is when you look at someone and your heart skips a beat because that person just makes you so happy, and you really can't explain why they make you happy, they just do. His wife, though he does truly love her in a way, she's about as insignificant as the ring on his finger.

Today is all about the woman standing behind the podium.

Every year, it's the same old song and dance. They've established this warped tradition of some sort, this one day where they break free from their separate lives and live a life that is the two of theirs meshed together as one. So why the shareholders meeting, one might ask? Oddly enough, there's no specific reason at all. Awhile back, they just gave in to what they wanted, what they _needed_, and it just happened to occur here at this yearly meeting. They wholly surrendered themselves to one another, not thinking about the consequences and more importantly, not caring. What was supposed to be a one-time ordeal cumulated into an annual event, a holiday as they now call it. And one of these years, they may get caught. Someone may walk in, clueless because that's how people are, and their jaw will drop as their eyes widen to absorb the sight before them. Whether she'll be on her knees, taking him in her mouth, or whether he'll have her bent over in front of him, groaning as he thrusts into her, it won't matter. The jig will be up, but oh, don't think that they're going to stop.

Because they won't. Ever.

The meeting rolls on as meetings always do. Stephanie and Paul both take their turns to speak, respectively updating the shareholders about business, when really there's only one thing prevalent in each of their thoughts. But no one picks up on the way that he shifts to conceal his growing bulge, or the way that she grips the edges of the podium just a little too tightly, a feeble attempt to keep her lust at bay. Nobody notices. Not even _the_ Vincent Kennedy McMahon, who claims to know his employees, his daughter especially, like the back of his hand.

Stephanie leers at that thought. Her father is forever telling her what's best for her, what she wants, what she needs…and she is forever resenting him for it. After all, it's _his_ fault that her life turned out this way, that she's so forlorn over the decisions he's made for her. Not a day goes by where she doesn't wish she would had been more defiant, more willing to take risks a long time ago like she does now. Had that been the case, she wouldn't be living this sad excuse of a life that she is today, and even better, Paul would be hers not one day of the year, but every day. All three hundred sixty-five of them – three hundred sixty-six on leap years of course. She smiles desolately.

So the summit eventually draws to a conclusion, and when it does, the people in the room leisurely make their way towards the exit, talking amongst themselves as they file out the double doors. Two in the crowd slip out the back exit unnoticed, however, and it's no secret which two those are.

"The usual place?"

Stephanie links her hand through his, already tugging him in a haste down the vacant corridor as her heels click against the tile. "The usual place," she confirms brusquely.

"How wet are you, McMahon?" he asks in that husky voice, the one that will drive her to insanity at any given instant.

"You'll find out soon enough."

"I've waited a goddamn year, Stephanie, and I refuse to wait another second," he growls in her ear.

In one swift movement, Paul hoists her up from the ground, causing Stephanie to giggle as he tosses her over his shoulder seemingly without care. She's not quite sure why she giggles, but the reaction is instantaneous and beyond her control. Perhaps it's inspired by abrupt volatility, or maybe it's just because she's a fucking terrible person and somehow this amuses her to a great extent.

Scratch that, _they_ are terrible people since it obviously takes two to tango. And really, she couldn't have asked for a better dance partner.

Desperately, she breathes in his scent because it's the next best thing to tasting him. She hears him fumbling with a doorknob, and a few seconds later, they're inside a room that they're both so familiar with. It's an empty room as it always is, but only in regards to people and furniture, concrete things like that. Memories, well, it's filled with quite a lot actually, one for each year to be exact. And there have been a lot of years.

"Finally," Stephanie hisses as he sets her down. Now just a wee bit of distance separates her from the prize. Eyes darkening, the two hold a silent stare that lasts only a few moments, taking one last good look at each other before the ruthless sinning is underway.

"Ready?" Paul asks with raised brows even though he knows her answer.

Smirk.

"Fuck me, baby."

And with those three words, he has her back pressed against a wall, capturing her lips in a fiery kiss that allows him to taste every inch of her mouth. His hands roam all over her body, hers roaming all over his, and somewhere along the way, their rings plummet to the floor, the circular reminders of marriage completely irrelevant and forgotten in this moment. All that matters now is tasting and touching. Savoring. Memorizing the feel of each other's bodies because it won't be long before this is all ripped away from them once again.

Eventually, Paul severs the fusion between their mouths and moves his lips to her neck at a rapid pace, nipping and sucking at it furiously as he forms a trail down south. Moans are elicited, zippers unzipped, and buttons undone. Soon thereafter, they make their way to an available countertop, leaving a trail of unnecessary clothing in their wake. Paul briskly lifts Stephanie onto the surface and he's grateful that his eyes can take a swig of her for real this time. There's no conservative business outfit secreting her glorious curves or her tempting breasts or any of this natural beauty that others don't get to witness for themselves.

Wetting his lips, he moves in on her, extending a hand to touch the fabric that still shields areas of desire.

"I've always loved you in red."

Stephanie moans, partially because she loves the contact, partially because she needs more of it. Something about the way he touches her, even simply the way he talks to her, makes her feel so beautiful and wanted. With others, feelings as such are nonexistent, but Paul on the other hand never fails to spark those sensations. It's as if he worships every fraction of her body, and at times like these, she likes to believe he does. Slowly, she trails a manicured nail along his jawline, scraping the skin ever so softly as she parts her lips to speak.

"You love what's underneath even more," she whispers.

"Is that right?" he questions as he begins to palm her through the now damp lace. Stephanie tosses her head back in sheer pleasure and grips the edge of the counter for support, grinding her core against his hand because she craves more.

"What happened to not waiting another second?" she asks through clenched teeth.

"Mmm, did I say that? Well, in that case…"

The very next thing she feels is the lacy material being pushed aside, only to be followed by him entering her so abruptly. She bites down on her bottom lip, wondering how he freed his length so quickly, in what seemed like merely seconds, but then she reminds herself she doesn't care. He's pumping into her, slowly at first, but then a bit faster. Harder. And oddly enough, it's not like they're beginning again, or starting from scratch, or anything even remotely akin to that. They're simply picking up where they left off, and as soon as they establish a steady rythym of rocking and grinding into each other, it's like they never stopped – almost as if they were never apart.

She digs her nails into his upper back, whimpering and wincing as he pushes deeper and deeper inside. Meanwhile, Paul's large hands desperately explore her body, and when they land upon a clasp, he wastes little time in ridding her of the garment. He holds her breasts in his hands, squeezing them gently and running his thumb over her nipple, because he knows she loves when he does that, and frankly, he loves doing that just to elicit that reaction from her.

It's not long before their mouths meet again, and they're kissing each other harder than ever before. He subconsciously threads his fingers through her hair, using his hands to press her face against his, deepening the kiss. They're dressed in nothing but perspiring skin, and of course, this is the way they like it best. They're able to love each other boundlessly, their two naked bodies entwining together, joining into one so that they're able to feel whole for a little while.

"I'm close," she tells him against his lips.

"I know," Paul whispers, feeling her walls tightening around him. "I know you are."

Their foreheads are rested against each other, eyes closed tightly, and they revel in the wonderful sensations that arise as they both reach their climax. Labored breathing and low moans echo off the walls, and they eventually become aware of those sounds as they slip back into the real world and Paul slips out of her.

"It's over," Stephanie says, sort of solemnly. She frowns, and Paul places his hand on her cheek to comfort her.

"It doesn't have to be," he replies optimistically.

"We have time?"

"All the time in the world."

She grabs his hand and thoughtfully grazes her thumb over the back of it.

"I think what we're doing is kind of bad…kind of not right," she explains. Her eyes migrate to the floor, but flicker back to his face a second later. Her frown is now a smile. A devious, sinning, lustful smile. "But I don't think we can stop."

"It's a little late for that," he chuckles, and it's a painful chuckle. "But hey," he hushes, pecking her lips just once, "I love you. I love you a lot. You know that, right?"

"Yes," she sighs. "And I love you. A lot."

And just like that, they're at it again, moving on from the words spoken and enticing each other in the worst ways.

It's not over now, but it will be soon. Temporarily, at least. And then they'll have to do it all over again, survive another year of emptiness, a year of not knowing who they are until this day rolls around next year and they find themselves again. They live lives of pain, lives of misery, and most times death seems like the better option, but they never opt to go that route. They hold on. They keep their heads held high, smile when it's necessary to smile, laugh when it seems appropriate, because deep down they know every now and then it will be okay. They'll be together, and everything will be okay.


End file.
